Prism Ring
by Jonn Wood
Summary: Oh great, thought the self-insert, my Power Ring's broken. And I'm pretty sure there's no warranty.
1. Any Color You Like

In 2001, I came up with an idea for a self-insert novel about a superhero with an power ring that was a blatant Green Lantern ripoff. I cleverly shifted it to vaguely defined "energy" and had totally-not-me dress in black and silver, because I was 12 and light refraction indexes.

Over time, I broadened the concept. For one thing, the SI hasn't had my name for most of a decade, and I think of him as an entirely separate person. He also has a supporting cast and an actual goal in the planned first book. The following two would each follow an (original) member of his team and the series would involve a plot to kill heroes and save the Tri-State area.

Like many aspiring writers, I haven't actually written the books. I know, broadly, what the plots will be about, and have notes scattered all over the place, but nothing substantial. I'd post it as a web serial, but I'd have...difficulties with and donations. (I probably should've given the money back to that orphanage.)

So, recently, I had a dream involving a clear, plastic power ring that I found in a store. I distinctly recall dream-me thinking, "boy, this would make good fodder for a Lantern Self-Insert like I'm reading all the time on Spacebattles."

And then I woke up, and I had no idea what my powerset might be.

Then I thought "not plastic, _crystal_. And what does a crystal do? It refracts."

And then I threw in the supporting characters and put them in a setpiece from the first book, buuut turned up a bit. As is my tendency to think in references.

And here we are. This is only going to be a one-shot, since I can't be arsed to change formatting between the SB version and the FFdotnet version for every chapter, and I don't have any long-term plot in mind. This is just a proof-of-concept. I don't think I'd be able to make an actual book out of this without DC suing me unless I used the emotions from _Inside Out_ or something.

At which point I'd risk being sued by Disney, which would be much, _much_ worse.

* * *

 **Prism Ring: Any Color You Like**  
(or; There and Back Again)

It's a beautiful day in Silver City, California. The sun is shining, the skies are clear, and people are fleeing in terror from a bank robbery.

Admittedly, the robbery involves powered armor, magic, and high-powered weaponry, but details.

My ring's Passive Information Gathering is gathering information about the woman on the rooftop below me. Actually, it's Active Information Gathering, but I like the looks on people's faces when they work out the acronym.

Green Priority: Does AIG Insurance exist in this world? Or is it AIG Financial? Whatever.

 _Item added._

 _Merci_ , ring.

The sniper, PIG says, is French and genetically modified, to the point where her skin is blu-

Wait a second. Does she, as the kids say, got the booty?

As it happens, _she dooo._

Oh, this cinches it. I'm either at the whim of some Random Omnipotent Being, or I'm in a lantern self-insert fic. In fact, I'm in a self-insert fic set in the self-insert universe I started creating when I was 12, where I can feel free to do things like blatant _Overwatch_ character ripoffs. And fitting my love of puns, not-Widowmaker is _literally_ on overwatch.

Then again, _la belle madame_ is herself a fusion of Black Widow and Hawkeye, so there's a serious question of how deep this rabbit hole goes.

Well, nothing for it but to disarm her in a suitably intelligent way.

"Ahem," I cough.

She doesn't notice.

" _Pardon,_ " I say, a little louder, in my best French accent.

She jerks up from the scope, her rifle already collapsing to carbine form. Unfortunately for her, I've been absorbing her focus for the past several minutes, and it's simple enough to upshift that green **will** into golden **fear**.

It's either that, or turn it into hope, and that's the last thing I want her to feel. Shame I can't turn her will against her directly.

I'm not sure what she sees, when she looks at me. Perhaps her dead husband. Perhaps whatever They did to her. Whatever it is, her rifle falls from her nerveless hands, her mouth hangs open, and a tear falls from her eye.

I look away as she starts babbling, and force myself not to disable the ring's translation. It's all desperate words of apology, she made a mistake, it wasn't her, it wasn't _her_ , they did it, she couldn't help herself-

Yeesh.

I take her **fear** and upshift it to **avarice** ,

 _(mineminemine)_

which I use, briefly, to subspace the fancy rifle she used. Even with the Prism Ring's computational ability assisting me, I don't dare use it, because it sure doesn't have a "stun" setting.

I have this image, suddenly, of me blowing off a cop's arm, a civilian's head, hitting the fuel tank of a car with a baby in the backseat-

Okay, shake off the fear. Put the ring in neutral, which limits it to a life support forcefield, comms, and computing (not even flight, can you believe it?), and turns it from orange to its neutral greyish-translucent. Safety-Cuff her. Alert the cops. Survey the situation.

It's not looking good for the home team. The out-of-towners have someone holding up a half-dome shield glowing with what are presumably magical runes in the direction of the cops, while some mooks load a truck, and the guy in the flying tin can mops up anyone trying to sneak up on the blindside, occasionally tossing missiles and bombs just to keep the po-po honest. It's a complete shutout, or no-hitter, or sticky wicket, or whatever the applicable metaphor is.

I'm not very interested in sports.

The ring tells me that the truck doesn't appear to be weighed down by the moneybags being piled into it, which probably means it's bigger on the inside, which indicates either high-tech or magic. What information it gathered about magic users is scattered and incomplete and contradictory, for some reason.

I'm not sure why they're robbing a bank, when the suit alone would be worth more than the few tens of thousands or whatever is kept in the vault. Heck, the _truck_ would be worth more.

Yellow Priority: Is there anything this could be a distraction _from_? Did they go after the safe deposit boxes? Oh, and do more in-depth research into magic.

 _Items added._

 _Danke_ , ring.

Unfortunately, I don't think I can batter down the shield with my almost-out reserves of _will_ without Phony Stark taking me to task. If I try to fly around it, with my limited skill, there's a good chance I just punch out all of Gandalf the Greedy's blood, and that does _not_ make for a good first impression for the cops. And if I attack his armored compatriot, I open myself up to magic attacks. In short, they'll cover for each other, and if the mooks get involved, ooh, ooh, this could get messy. Fly away with the truck? I might run out of will, Tin Man would chase me and I couldn't fight him off, and that still leaves the rest of a crew as a threat. Maybe I could use my ace in the hole someh-

I spot movement. A young Asian woman built on the lines of Ronda Rousey is moving towards the robbers. They don't notice her, because she periodically turns into rubble, a grocery bag, a wallet-

I can see one of the bad guys actually stop to think about going to get it, while holding a giant bag of money. Amazing.

And then she's in among the sheep.

They're armed, of course. High-tech laser thingies, blow right through a cop car if they had time to shoot. (Hence, Widowmaker on overwatch. She's even been keeping their escape route clear, by stopping any cop cars before they got close enough to block the road.) But they don't have time to even notice the girl before she's _right there_ , and pulling weapons out of grips and applying leverage and occasionally shifting and by the time Aluminium Man has cottoned on, she's standing in a pile of knocked out bad guys, breathing heavily, a slight smile on her face.

It's nice to see your creations in action.

She's a shapeshifter, a trained martial artist since she was old enough to walk, adopted, an unlicensed hero as of, presumably, a few seconds ago, and the only thing different from the way I wrote her is the name. Olivia Aldrin. She's using her real face, oddly, even though in the book's outline she uses a composite Asian face when on the job. Now when I say she's Asian, I mean _Asian_ , not just what used to be called "the Orient". She's mixed. Adopted by an American family after an earthquake that destroyed all records of her parentage. Her foster dad is-

Well.

Spoilers.

I ask the ring to look for a white teenage guy with blonde hair and grey eyes nearby. He's with the civilians, handing a kid to his mother, and then looking back at the bank robbery with concern, where _Flying Man is about to unload on Liv_ -

" _Ring! Two User-level accounts with comms privilege, and Overclock!_ "

Okay, let me explain. In The Book I Am Writing, "Saul Moss" eventually grants his teammates access to a sort of bullet-time conference call that allows them to plan. (It's like Accelerated Perception from Mr Zoat's _With This Ring_ ", except I did it before it was cool.) The blonde kid, named Gabe here, apparently, has the ability to see probable futures. (Again, like Dinah from _Worm_ , except I did it - nevermind.) This makes him a good tactician, and obvious choice for team leader.

I'm pretty sure he didn't see getting roped into a high-speed Skype call running on a magic alien ring coming, though.

An instant later, from the world's perspective, just before Iron Pan (look, they can't all be winners) gets target lock and goes _Justice Rains From Above!_ , a shot glances off of his helmet, knocking him to the side and spoiling his aim. It is, of course, delivered by Gabe, who unlike me, _does_ know how to shoot, even if it's through a high-tech rifle recently owned by an uncannily-good French sniper. His power helps with that.

At the same time, I use the fleeing crowd's **fear** downshifted to **will** , and quickly fly right up to the shield.

"Hey," I say.

The magician looks at me for a second. He's **greedy**. Very greedy. Probably planning to Dark-Knight-opening-sequence everyone else as soon as they're clear of the cops.

You know how they say you see red when you get pissed? In this case, it was literal. **Angry** crimson bile comes spewing out of my throat, so this _insect's_ own upshifted **avarice** is eating away at his shield. he tries collapsing it to a smaller, full-coverage shield, but nope, that's gone too. And as his primary emotion shifts to **fear** , I let up on the firehose. Despite my anger, I'm still rational enough on some level to wonder how much Pepto I'm going to have to take for that kind of heartburn.

And then the macro Gabe wrote activates, the ring goes **green** , speeds forward, catches him in a chokehold, and holds him until he falls asleep while he thrashes ineffectually. Like most wizards, he didn't put ranks in Unarmed Combat. Very sad.

Meanwhile, the Man in the Iron Suit has recovered, to find a certain blue assassin where Liv was, clutching at the bloody hole in her side.

"Gavin?" she says, staggering toward him. " _Cherie?_ "

He cuts thrusters and drops to the ground, catching her in his arms as she falls. Looking around wildly, he sees me, Safety-Cuffing his magical partner.

He could've escaped. He could've just seen the heat coming around the corner and walked - or rocketed - away with her. There were two problems with that.

The first one, as you already figured out, is that his girlfriend was catatonic on a rooftop, and he was holding Liv.

The second was that Liv and Gabe had bought me just enough time to upshift his **love** to **compassion** , exposing him to _every_ emotion in the area. Even getting the bleed-off sends me reeling, but it was either that or downshift, which would send it right out of the emotional spectrum.

Sure is strange how the emotional spectrum just _happens_ to fit within the human-visible electromagnetic spectrum. And what about Green Lanterns like Rot Lop Fan, who uses an F-Sharp bell instead of the green light? Would my ring just change pitch? Is there some sort of infrared or ultraviolet lantern? What would a magnetic or FM lantern do?

Oh, right, the supervillain.

He falls to his knees, crying.

The ring estimates that he'll be incapacitated for 27.93114 minutes. I call the cops in, and bleed off their **will** , shifting it to **hope** to heal anyone in the area who needs it, letting the ring triage.

If they need me to get him out of the suit, I can make a construct can-opener or something. I hope. I've been having terrible luck with constructs. I could just as easily end up opening him.

As for now, I'm just gonna collapse in front of the bank, if nobody minds. After a few seconds, Liv joins me.

"Good job, champ," I say. "Good effort."

She looks at me sidelong, brow furrowed. "How did you _know_ those things?"

I wave a hand at her. "Magic space ring."

The logo on the ring, FYI, happens to look like a greyish linework version of the Google Chrome logo, except with two segments instead of one. It's not symmetrical like all the other corps, unless you count rotational symmetry. I'm thinking a whirlpool. Or...something else. I'm sure it'll come to me.

I detect Gabe approaching, slipping through the gaps in the police perimeter like water through a sieve. It must be nice for Liv to have someone who cares about you like that.

Of course, everyone who cared about me was in another universe I might never get back to.

Funny thing about the ring; to prevent bootstrapping loops (I assume), any emotion shifted from the wielder is much less powerful than those gathered from others. So my yellow **despair** only came out to a trickle of green **will**. I stored it anyway.

Red Priority; find out if "Saul Moss" exists in this universe, as well as the villain of the piece. If I was writing this, and there's a good chance I am, I'd change up everything so me wouldn't know what to expect, so me could screw I over and make it entertaining for our readers.

 _Items added._

Thanks, ring. Sorry for the confusing pronouns.

I could delay any existential conundrums until later. After determining my hero codename. "Mood ring" is a bit too...disco. Maybe "Prism"? I can't even call myself a "Lantern" because I don't actually have a power battery. Yet.

Gabe had ditched the rifle someplace the cops would be statistically likely to find it - natch - and approached Liv at a run. She didn't get up for a hug, so he just settled for an uncertain "...hey."

She smiled up at him. "Hey yourself. I'm fine. Worn out, but fine."

He gave a wan smile, and sat down next to her. "Me too."

I tried not to smile. Ah, young love. They'd jump into a fight to save complete strangers, but they couldn't admit their feelings for each other. Just like I wrote 'em.

Interesting.

I lie down, and close my eyes.

But that sure wasn't going to be _my_ problem.

"Have you ever tried shawarma?" I say, pretty much involuntarily. "I don't know what it is, but I want some."


	2. 02 Two feet and a heartbeat

**02 Two feet and a heartbeat**

 **-PR-**

I can't find myself.

As I leave my room, I pass the window between the residential section of the Aldrin's house and the work area. Liv is in there with her Saturday morning kids' class, who wave as they see me. I wave back, a smile on my face, and walk outside into the sunshine.

"Saul Moss", or any other clever versions of the name, don't exist in this universe. And for that matter, I don't exist. I burned some light, and there's no one with a significant genetic match to me or my relatives. Facerec turned up no counterpart.

 **Fun Fact:** My country is a US territory in this universe instead of becoming independent from British rule back in the 70s. Just like I wrote it.

Shades on. Sunscreen? Yeah, I got sunscreen.

The local Department of Metahuman Affairs - it used to be the Metahuman Affairs Division, but they got tired of the obvious acronym jokes - was rather understanding about me being a refugee from another dimension. Turned out they had paperwork for that. After running a discreet check of their own, they handed me the forms.

Took me three minutes. Nice to have a supercomputer on your finger.  
 _(pride)_  
Stretching? Nah. Ring, bring up the sports HUD.

Speaking of checks, we've been frozen out of the bank robbery investigation, on account of not actually being registered superheroes with any sort of investigative training or authorization. The cops and DMA have even got their computers and offices magically warded and airgapped. The local office where I signed up, not so much.

I set off at a sprint, and keep going until my pulse redlines. Past the Iceland frozen food store, which apparently did surprisingly well in the US. I remember my final year of Uni in the UK where one moved in across the street from my flat, with a liter of Sunny D for a pound.

Next door to an even cheaper food store.

With an ASDA down the road.

And a Burger King around the corner.

And I discovered the wonders of ordering takeout online.

And that's why I'm jogging.

Turns out there doesn't seem to be any actual expiry date on the metaphorical juice I have stored. I find desire easiest to work with, but I'm, well, I'm leery of being overtaken by it. I mean, just look at what Paul did in With This Ring. Giving pizza to gangsters, baking extremely large cakes, and accidentally building a harem like he's some sort of anime protagonist. I'm talking Asterisk War levels of obliviousness here. And this is coming from a guy who is so oblivious, he once effectively asked a female friend on a date without realizing he was interested in her.

Ah, high school.

Speaking of thwarted romantic interests, I'm coming up on Ms. McGillicuty's house. She's taken to watering her garden a lot more since the tall, black, reasonably symmetrical man started jogging past on Saturday mornings.

I wave at her as I turn the corner. She waves back, and when she thinks I can't see her, stares at my rear.

She writes fanfiction. I can't cast stones.

I've had to cut off Olivia and Gabe. Turns out that if you give a pair of teenagers unrestricted internet access while they're in school, they use it. I informed them that I could see everything they looked at, and they started looking at really NSFW sites. So, no internet at all while in the hallowed halls of learning. Out-passive-aggress _me_ , will you?

Oh, and you can't harness or use emotional spectrum light over the Internet. Trust me, I got **mad** at some moron on Tumblr, and all it did was damage the computer I bought to keep up appearances. And also to bait any sticky-fingered thieves.

There's Mr. Abbar, 43, walking his dog. As I walk past, I nod at him, he nods at me, I nod at the dog, she wags her tail. Single, seeking a good woman (must love Allah and dogs, but not necessary the 2005 romantic comedy Must Love Dogs), electrical engineer. EHarmony's algorithm is...struggling, and he's certainly not joining Tinder.

Finding a church was rather hard. Preferably Baptist, or Presbyterian. Heaven forfend, I'd even take _Methodist_ , in a pinch. Luckily, I found a nice, non-denomination stompin' and clappin' black church, with sermons you can sleep through and everything. Just like Daddy used to make.

When I reach the top of the hill, I jog in place a little to build up momentum, and proceed down the steps. Good for the glutes. Or the superior vena cava. Or something else Latin-sounding.

Scott Adams once made a joke about how, if he had a computer in his head, he'd constantly opt-out of boring conversations. In one Star Trek book, Data engages a flirting subroutine while he considers the case he and Tasha Yar are investigating. And I am now a geek with unlimited access to Wikipedia and TVTropes and Reddit and Tumblr.

I have not gotten much done.

At the bottom of the steps, I walk forward and lean on the wall, watching my heart rate come back down.

Just call me Taylor Hebert.

Eventually, I stop feeling like death warmed over, and my legs regain function, and I start back up the steps.

Time to go to the hospital.

-/-

"Wake up, Colossus," Liv's voice says in my head.

I wake up. "That's the X-Men," I say, as my body continues to read the news to the coma patient.

"I meant the big Greek statue."

"Good, because I don't have a tracksuit."

"What?"

"I'm not Russian."

"That's racist."

Hospitals are a great place to pick up **fear** and **hope** , which I change to **will** , because it's _supposedly_ the easiest to work with.

And yet, I haven't made a single actual construct. Of _any_ color. Phenominal cosmic power my rear.

As cover, I've faked the paper trail for an organization that reads to comatose people. I let my ring run that, devote a macro to emotion collection, and nap.

There's probably some thematic parallel I could draw there.

"Whatcha doin'?" Liv asks me.

"Sitting in a chair, wearing a shirt that says 'A & B & C & D'. _Et tu?_ "

"Getting ready to go to the movies. Are you planning to do anything _besides_ going to the hospital, lying in a bed and surfing the Internet?"

"I eat, sleep, and poop sometimes."

"Yeah, you're a regular Kardashian. For someone with a power ring, you don't seem to be getting much actual use out of it."

"Hey, it makes an excellent web host. My clients are _very_ thankful."

"Were you like this at home?"

Something in my chest twinges. Probably gas.

"Pretty much." I look out the window. "Work, home, church, the occasional movie. Sunrise, sunset."

"Has he hacked into anyone else's Tumblr account?"

"Who's **'** he'?"

 _Primary user has compromised the account of one Chunky Underscore Funky, who attempted to end a debate with Floyd by use of the Ignore function. If Tumblr's staff investigate, they will find that Chunky Underscore Funky's Ignore list was accidentally purged by a glitch._

"They're going to catch on eventually."

"Not if I make sockpuppets."

"Nooot my point. Don't you have anything better to do with the ring?"

"What do you expect me to do?" I retort. "I don't have any training, I don't know who to go to _for_ training, I don't have a team-"

"You've got me," Liv says, in a quiet, soft sort of voice.

I don't even remember activating Overclock.

So, most of the main cast in this setting had Daddy Issues. Olivia was adopted by a black couple, and strove to prove herself. Gabe and his sis had lost their dad when they were little, and Gabe's godfather and primary male influence for several years was Mr. Aldrin.

In the Novel, Gabe's sister would aggressively flirt with the self-insert, until they broke up under irreconcilable differences vis-a-vis when and exactly how hard she was going to jump his bones, and he'd get a new GF in the third book.

Probably piss off tumblr somethin' fierce.

Anyway, Gabe and Olivia would also both find Saul attractive, but would never do anything about it. Well, Gabe because he knew Saul was straight, and

And now I, a man in his late 20s, had to deal with what was quite possibly a teenage girl hitting on an older version of the guy she liked in canon.

"Um," I say. " _Um._ "

I have to give her credit, she managed to keep a straight voice for a fair amount of time before bursting into laughter.

"Very funny," I growl. I don't _like_ being made the butt of a joke. Not. One. Bit.

In retrospect, her voice hadn't carried overtones or undertones of desire or love. I can't believe I _fell_ for it.

"Are you still calling her 'Ring'?"

"One, who says she's a she? Two, what else would I call her?"

"I dunno. Starr?"

"One, that's Power Girl's last name. For another, that way lies madness, especially if I'm actually talking about space. And Starr Ring sounds like a porn star name."

"Okay, okay. How about Sadoko?"

"Isn't that the name of the little girl from 'the Ring'?"

"Maybe."

"Ring, do you like the name Sadie?"  
(joy)  
 _Designation acceptable._

"She said-"

"I heard. Why does she talk in audio samples?"

 _Does user have a preference?_

"Well, can you just-"

 _Does_ primary _user have a preference?_

"No, I'm fine with the Bumblebee impression."

"Did your magic space ring just _sass_ me?"

"If she did, I'm very proud of her."  
 _(joy)_  
"Think about what I said, Floyd. Talk to your pastor or something. I hear the DMA gives free therapy."

"But I don't have mommy issues."

She pointedly silenced at me before ending the call.

"Hello," someone says to my body, which, realistically, jumps as I shut down the autopilot.

"Sorry to scare you. I'm Nurse Reyes."

She sure is smiling broadly. I'm getting anger and some caution.

"I just wanted to say that I'm glad you're here."

"Thanks...?"

"You know, it's a funny thing about statistics," she says, apropos of nothing. "The hospital has several algorithms running to detect any deviations from the median, or mean. And we track the movements of visitors to the hospital."

What was she on ab-

 _Reyes' computer usage indicates that the algorithm has noted an improvement in the condition of comatose patients in areas where you were present._

Oh.

"Now," she continued. "If I had evidence that some super-powered individual was conducting unauthorized medical procedures on non-consenting patients, I'd be obliged to report it, and that individual might go to jail for a _very long time_. Unfortunately, there was a glitch in the system, and the take for several _completely_ random comatose patients over the past week or so has been lost."

"What a shame," says some robot using my voice, as the book I had been "reading" falls to the floor.

She nods. "I know, and you might want to tell the Morpheus Foundation that they need to increase their SEO."

Search Engine Optimization?

"I couldn't find your website at _all_."

"I'll...I'll send a memo."

She pats me on the shoulder, and leaves, and I collapse back into my seat.

 _Your heart rate is elevated._

Thank you, Captain Horatio Obvious.  
(hurt)  
"Exchange to fort."

"Liv? _What_ is that _noise_?"

"We're in my mom's car," Gabe said. "Her best friend got her a CD of French accordion music-"

"Personally, I'd say that makes her more of a frenemy," Liv snarked.

"-And I wanted to give it a fair shake."

"Also, you got a call from the DMA," Liv said.

"What? Huh. Why?"

"Maybe because you put my house as your phone number?"

"Whoops."

"They said something about escorting a dignitary."

"From where? Sweden? Tibet? Canada?"

"A little farther than that."

-/-

Care and handling instructions for your alien-not-exactly-a-princess, but-sure-let's-go-with-that; Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate.

DMA had State breathing down their neck on this, and for some reason, they entrusted it to a complete unknown. Maybe their logic was "he has a space magic ring, she's a an anthropormorphized energy flux alien, they'll get on like a house on fire!"

And, y'know, possibly set houses on fire.

Still, she had diplomatic immunity, I didn't. In preparation, I had bought a nice casual outfit, and stored a go-bag in a locker at the bus station. I wanted to look less "bodyguard" and more "pop-star's boyfriend", and had been assured that her bodyguards would take care of the heavy lifting, with me as the backup. Said gentlemen were currently glaring at me.

They looked like someone had poured them out of a mold set to "black bodyguard" and "white bodyguard". Black tie, black shades, black shoes, and a black attitude, as the poet William Smith of West Philidelphia (born and raised) did say.

The fussy little DMA functionary seems agitated. I can't imagine why.

The dual doors in front of us open, and out sweeps a a perfectly ordinary woman.

Well, not _normal_ normal. By no stretch of the imagination is she normal. This is not a woman you could pass in the street without swerving into a lamppost. I'd say she was built like a swimsuit model, except those tend to be more...top heavy, and she's more, ahem, evenly distributed, despite being tall. Her hair is long and a reddish-brown, her clothes are tasteful and stylish and expensive-looking, her skin is non-specifically light brown, a few shades lighter than my own, and her eyes are Afghan Girl-green.

"Floyd Clapton," I say, entirely on autopilot, and stick my hand out to shake. She takes it.

"Floyd Clapton," she says in a crisp upper-class British accent, tasting the word, rolling it around on her tongue. "Perhaps it's a just coincidence that your ring bears some similarity to a prism, which was famously featured on Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side of the Moon' cover. And that there's a famous rock musician named Eric Clapton."

A sunny smile. "Perhaps not."

You know that moment in Doctor Who when Rose shows the psychic paper to the random Torchwood guy, and he goes "this paper is blank"? I kinda know what she felt like now.

"Um," I say.

Phat Princess shifts her hold to my arm, and has a surprisingly strong grip, and some part of my hindbrain goes _a_ _ **girl**_ _! A girl is touching me! A_ _ **giiirl**_ _!_ "

Well, she's more of a woman, really. _That's_ kind of hard to deny. Maybe it's the eyes. Maybe it's something else.

"How old are you?"

"Subjectively? Add 4, carry the 6-"

"Are you doing relativistic math in your head?"

"Yes. And you just distracted me."

A thought hits me like a blot of summer lightning. Long reddish hair, green eyes, rather shapely, alien space princess-

"Do you have a sister?"

She gives me a look that is _certainly_ more than just friendly. Almost a smirk. Maybe even a leer. "Why? Am I not enough woman for you?"

Uh-oh.

If I _am_ in a self-insert fic, I'd really like to ask myself _why_ I'm going on a not-date with knockoff _Starfire_.

 **-PR-**

The accordion CD is real. Except it's _my_ mum, and I hear it _every time I ride with her_. Weep for me.


	3. 03 Cherchez La Femme

**03 Cherchez La Femme**

* * *

"So what did you do?"

"Remember Liv, earlier?"

"You checked."

"Yep. Same results. She was messing with me. She pouted when she realized I wasn't taking the bait. Then we got in the unmarked DMA SUV and went out on the town."

-/-

 _Seeing the sights and souds of Silver City_ , by Floyd Clapton.

Ingredients: One alien space not-princess, two bodyguards, and one interdimensional refugee.

Simmer in a walking tour of downtown Silver.

Add frozen yogurt.

Add watchful paranoia.

Heat at 30 C for an hour.

Realize the metaphor has escaped you.

She drew me out.

I mean, I'm not exactly the most chatty guy. But her metaphorical flail wound its way around my metaphorical shield, and next thing I knew, I was opening up about my...situation.

We were sitting on some benches meant to provide a nice view of an abstract sculpture fountain for folks on their lunch breaks to snarf their triple non-fat venti mocha Keurig espressos. The bodyguards were...somewhere nearby.

"Three, two, one, _omnomnom_ ," I said, and brought the spoonful of frozen yogurt to my mouth. Princess did the same with her spoonful of...pistachio? Mint?

Many men would've seen the highly inefficient way she sucked it off the spoon and started having Rather Naughty Thoughts. My response was mild irritation at the lack of subtlety and a thought of _Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?_

In return, I learned that she was 13.413726th in line for the throne, and their ship was really tiny, a shard of artificial space not-diamond.

"It's amazing what you can do with a waveform," she said, around a spoonful of frozen fat-free yogurt.

She was uncertain about what to do with her life, hence the partying, as well as the string of lovers. Male, female, "I don't think even Tumblr has words for that", she wasn't particularly discriminating, like most young adults of her species. Heck, even the female body she currently wore was more of a convenience than anything, supplemented by a hologram projector even the ring couldn't break into.

This information pretty much poured sand on the fires of my ardor.

By which I mean that a small but insistent voice at the back of my head was going "think of all the _possibilities_! That thing with the Albino Ice Phoenix-"

The primer the Department had gave me said nothing about potential liaisons with Princess, but I was strongly against it. Not just on religious grounds, but it just seemed like a bad idea. There'd be a massive power imbalance, and even if we did have something more permanent, I wasn't cut out for the life of a consort. There were only so many hospital ribbons I could cut before I turned the space-shears on my own wrist.

Which would make them rather difficult to operate.

Speaking of which, Princess told me that she was trying to find a job. Time to smoothly pick up the thread.

"So, post-graduation blues are apparently universal."

"Mmm. I'm extroverted, while you're introverted. I go out to parties, and you sit at home and argue with people online."

"I also write fanfiction," I deadpanned. "But seriously, I help people. At the hospital."

"Clapton, listen to me." She walked in front of me, put her hands on my shoulders, made eye contact. Standard persuasion tactics.

She had nice eyes. My complements to her designer.

"You're capable of much, much more. You said that you had an art degree. Have you drawn anything since arriving in this dimension?"

My eyes narrowed. It's harder to deny that you're angry when you have a magic space ring that can feel it building. "What do _you_ know about my life?"

"I'm good with people." A winsome head-tilt. " _Bit_ of a job requirement."

I stared at her. My throat felt tight and narrow. But my only cogent thought was _guuurl, why u so charming?_

"Why the British accent?"

"We searched for English-language associations with the term 'Princess', which is the closest translation of my title. It turned up a meme based on a interactive electronic entertainment series, an animated equine, several heavily marketed human animated princesses, and -"

"No, wait, let me guess. Ring, out loud."

" _Designate 'Princess' has an accent with a 63.7 match to Patricia Lurington, Duchess of Lancashire, Princess Consort of Albert, Prince of Wales._ "

"What's the rest of it?"

" _The other 36.3 percent appears to be Lara Croft._ "

"Which one?"

"All of them," Her Majesty said.

"Cute," I said. "If you were really British, you'd have bad teeth and poor taste in food."

Her eyes lit up. "Oooh! Dinner!"

" _Switzerland?_ " I ask.

We're found a decent restaurant. Four Yelp stars. Again, Misters White and Black are lurking just out of view. They've taken seats with views of the entire place, as I suppose good bodyguards do.

"Switzerland." She gestures with her fork, then bites the salmon off the end. "Neutral in conflicts, heavily armed, well-trained, rich."

"And you still have a nobility and royalty."

"Not exactly. It doesn't really translate to English. Or French. Or any other human language. Or four dimensions." She grimaced. "Unfortunately, my little Star Nation has accidentally become the buffer zone between 2.314 warring states."

I took a sip of my apple juice. "How are you menaced by a _fraction_ of a faction?"

" _Accidentally_. Pay attention. Most of their shipping comes through us, so they can't piss us off or risk buggering their economy."

"What do your parents expect you to-"

 _Activating environmental shield. Threat detected._

Way to bury the le-

I was on the ground. My ears hurt, but they weren't - no, they weren't bleeding. Sadie?

 _The front of the restauraunt exploded. Armed assailants are ingressing._

I sat up. Wait, this wasn't where I was sitting. Did I get thrown across the _restaurant_?

 _Affirmative._

I staggered to my feet, and towards the table where I had been sitting. Scan, green.

 _Emission spikes indicate that Princess is attempting to use non-human abilities. Attempts appear unsuccessful._

Any idea why?

 _When the assailants' van opened, I noticed their weapons and an unusual device._

And _then_ you sounded the alarm.

Something moved, and I looked left. White reached into his coat and pulled out something non-Euclidian. Before he could fire it, the bullets took him in the lower chest, and he fell.

When did I pick up these plates?

Doesn't matter. Sadie, you need to throw these at the bad guys as hard as I can.

 _Roger._

My right arm cocked itself back, and hurled the china directly at the mook's head. Followed by another mook. Followed by a hail of 7.62mm suppressing fire.

Unfortunately, it was coming in my direction.

By the time it was safe for me to poke my head out, their van had sped off with the Princess, leaving me in a ruined restaurant that would almost certainly not be serving desert..

I stood. " _Everyone all right?_ "

"Could be better," White murmured.

"Is everyone _important_ alright?"

"Heh."

Mr. Black was by his side, looking concerned. "Can you fix it?"

Light leaked between his fingers.

"I **hope** so."

 _Insufficient hope._

Oh, come on! Why?

 _Hope needed to scan pseudobody._

Oh, for - scan with green, or yellow, or anything else, and _then_ try to heal him! In fact, I **want** you to scan and fix him, and **hope** you'll be able to.

 _Healing._

The flesh knit itself back together over the light...as did the suit. Ew.

Light applause from the crowd.

I stood up. "Anyone else?"

"I think I saw the guy who takes reservations run out the back," someone said.

I shared a Look with the two guards.

"Oh, _really_?"

When I dumped the desk guy on the ground, he's quaking in his flex-cuffs, staring at the shadows in the corners. "Found him in his car."

"What did you _do_ to him?" Mr. White said.

"Just some **scare** tactics. He helped attack a restaurant full of innocent people, I'm not exactly concerned about his fee-fees."

"Can he tell us anything?" said Mr. Black.

"Not for another hour or so. I went a _little_ hard." I hold his phone. "This, however... Fingerprint lock. Cute. Ring?"

You might think I used the Spectrum to scan it on a molecular level. Nah. The moron left his data plan open, and Sadie cracked it that way.

"Got no trace," I announced. "The phone he texted is non-responsive. Buuut if I check the towers it pinged, I can ballpark it."

"Freeze!" said someone very official-sounding.

We all raised our hands. "It's okay!" I said. "We have diplomatic immunity!"

"So what you're saying," said the police-DMA liason, "is that these jokers are in contact with an advanced civilization."

We were sitting at a table that hadn't been broken.

"Probably, ma'am," I replied. "Its the only way I can think of for them to have a suppressor. Good part is, they all appear to be baseline human."

"How do you know?"

"Misters White and Black scanned them during the attack."

"Is White going to be okay?"

"He says he's be combat ready in about ten minutes."

"I don't have to tell you how much trouble this might cause."

"Actually, Lieutenant Tritter, I have to tell you. Over dinner, the Princess said she has the codes to her ship. Which, in turn, is equipped with the control codes to her Star Nation's defense net. Now, normal 'enhanced interrogation' probably won't work, and the ship access codes probably have to be inputted in gamma ray pulses or something anyway."

"And what are the odds that whoever these guys are working for won't have the ability to get the codes out of her and keep her captive?" The LT buries her face in her hands and groans. "And if something happens to her, guess which planet her folks are going to blame?"

"You sound like this is news to you. Didn't Jackson send you a memo or something?"

"Who?"

"Jackson. The DMA contact who...who..."

She raised her head. "There's no Jackson in the local office who'd be trusted with something on this level."

"Maybe they just transfered in?"

"Describe them to me. Man or woman?"

"They...uh..."

"Race? Height? What clothes they wore?"

"Sadie, do you remember anything?"  
 _(confusion)_  
" _Record not found._ "

The cop reached over and patted me on the shoulder. "Looks like you got hit by an anti-meme."

"What's that-no, I can guess."

"Magic, usually. As far as we can tell, there needs to be _something_ real to 'anchor' the effect." She shrugs. "Or maybe those are just the ones we can remember."

"So what you're saying is that we're possibly facing a magic user of unknown capability who may be able to erase my memory of meeting him...or her...or it, on top of mercenaries with alien tech, all of them with largely unknown motives and plans. Great. Just fantastic."

She gave me a thin-lipped smile. "Welcome to the superhero biz, kid."

"And with that, I think I'll get a drink." I got up and walked behind the bar. "Ring, how much malt do I need to take the edge off?"

"You strike me as more of a beer man."

"I'm not much of an _anything_ man. But _without_ it I am five minutes away from fear-spewing something disgusting from one of two orifices, and I'm not a fan of either one."

"The orifices?"

"The spewing." The bottle jittered against the rim of the glass as I tipped it out.

"Are you going to pay for that?"

I stared at her. "Fu - _bill me_."

"So then what?"

"We scouted the area. We got a rough fix on the room the Princess was in, and FLIR got the other people."

"Why a 'rough fix'?"

"The 'guards recognized the energy signature of the jammer, so we figured she had to be nearby. With Sadie's help, I echolocated the main jammer and the Princess."

"Your ring can do that?"

"...Apparently?"

"What was the plan?"

"We didn't know if we had enough manpower to neutralize the guards, especially since we didn't know what they were armed with."

"And then there was Jackson."

"And then there was Jackson. Maybe. The plan was not to get Princess away from the jammer-"

"-But to get the jammer away from the Princess."

It wasn't exactly a cheery sort of room, what with the detritus and dust and poor lighting. The chair wasn't Ikea-grade. The ostensible young woman tied to it was as out of place as a pearl in a Portajohn.

The large, industrial-looking device in front of her - and the smaller one behind her chair - fit right in.

She noticed the yellow filament extending from the ground behind her guard, and didn't move, didn't blink, didn't say anything. Just watched as the guard blinked, and then started to shake. He pointed his gun at thin air, started to hyperventilate-

"Now," she said.

And White's _fraktalweapon_ erupted under the guard's feet.

After he fell through the hole, there were a bunch of meaty, organic sounds, then it went quiet. Another hole opened up under the primary jammer, and it vanished. The Princess felt the lessening of pressure, but couldn't change, not yet.

A pair of brown hands grasped the edge of the hole and pulled her very favorite light-thief up.

I stand up, dusted myself off, and hold out my hand.

"Come with me if you want to live."

She gives me a bland look, and counters with; "Aren't you a little tall for a Stormtrooper?"

"Ah-ha-ha- _hah_." I **hated** the backup jammer and spit. It obligingly dissolved.

"Ah. Thank you."

"You're welc- _mmph!_ "

Oh. So _that's_ what that was like. Well, I could certainly see the appeal.

"You know," said the Princess, after she released me, "most men can figure out what to do with their hands at this point."

Um, okay.

Suddenly, I was sitting on the floor, my legs feeling strange, while she bent down and patted me on the cheek. "Rest now. I'll take care of it."

You know that feeling just a few minutes before the concert starts? The tingle in your skin before the rain falls? That moment when you're waiting to see if your broke-up old car is going to turn over and get you to work on time? That pause between anticipation and event?

That was what she felt like, unleashed.

I didn't see what she _looked_ like, mind. Well, I did, it's just incomprehensible to my boring human eyes, unless I was really seeing the smell of purple. There was a sound like a thunderclap turned inside out, and the Princess vanished.

Yeah, staying put seemed like a good idea, as the shouting and shooting started.

"So, the police arrested everyone, we drove her back to the hotel, and dropped them off.

"Just like that? She didn't give you any reward?"

I am _not_ telling him about the kiss.

"Oh, right, she left me this."

I find a clear spot in the paperwork, and place the holo-thingy on the Armstrongs' kitchen table.

"And Jackson wasn't one of the hostage-takers?"

"Yeah, about that."

"Evening," someone said.

I turned, as the squad car drove off.

There's a certain type of exercise, for artists, where you draw the negative space around an object. This was the 3D equivalent of that. I couldn't tell who was there, but I could tell what was going on _around_ them.

"Good job with the Princess," said Jackson, in a remarkably unremarkable voice. I literally can't remember anything about it except what it was saying. Accent, timbre, cadence, zilch. If there's any Emotional Spectrum content, I'm not getting it.

As far as I knew.

"Was this a test?" I said.

"Yes! And you passed!" The sound of clapping. "Good for you!"

I am **determined** to scan this guy. Aaand that's a wash. Everything it gets keeps deleting itself. Or...not really registering in the first place.

"See anything you like?"

How did-

"Your ring turned green. You _really_ need to work on that. Don't want a tell for what's coming."

"So what's coming?"

"All in good time."

And then I'm looking at an empty spot on the road.

"He was right outside my _house_?"

Mr. Armstrong is still fighting fit, even though his globetrotting days are behind him and there's some grey at his temples. He's a darker shade of brown than I am, if shorter, and taught Olivia everything she knows. I can see the muscles in his neck tensing.

"Yeah," I respond. "But that's not what I'm here for. You teach cops, right?"

"...Yes."

"I need to get in touch with them. It occurs to me that I am _woefully_ underlevelled. I know _slightly_ more than jack about guns or hand-to-hand, and have _no_ practical experience."

I tap the table thoughtfully.

"Also, what do you have to do to get a Private Investigator's license in California?"

 **-PR-**

Original title for this chapter was "Excuse me, Princess".

The anti-meme concept is shamelessly stolen from Sam Hughes' (Things of Interest) SCP Foundation stories. Though I saw a similar concept in Wildbow's "Pact" before I discovered Hughes' stories, Hughes' actually did it first.

 **So, how would** ** _you_** **have handled the hostage situation?** Also, has anyone here worked for any significant amount of time at a container port?


	4. 04 His Last Box

**04 His Last Box**

I peel out of the shipping container like the Devil himself is on my heels.

Which is pretty darn close to the truth.

Sadie chatters into my ear about the emissions coming from the thing as it boots up, while I burn **will** to hop up over the two-high stack of containers. I somehow resist the urge to yell " _parkour_ ", not least because it would be a serious tactical error.

The noises stop just as I land. Then I hear the clomp clomp of metal on metal as the machine stomps out.

 **Where are you, little pig?**

I'm not sure why the suit makes everything he says come out greedy. Maybe it's a prototype. If it was designed for military use, you'd think they'd use will or rage, like that one cyborg in that _Global Frequency_ story. Then again, I may well be the only person who can see the Spectrum on the planet.

 **I made you the second you showed up.**

Well, no point maintaining the disguise. I tell the holoprojector to go and be a good little distraction while I consider my options. I hear the mini-mecha bugger off after it, and take advantage of the minute or two of silence.

All right, activate Iceman Mode. The idea was for the ring to suppress my physiological response to stress, especially the type that caused me to make bad decisions in combat.

Like, for instance, throwing plates at bad guys. _Plates_.

How did I even get into this mess in the first place?

* * *

"Nice Vespa."

"Cheaper than a Lincoln. What's up, Lamar?"

"You know your PI company you're always telling stories about?"

"I'm not _technically_ a PI, but, yeah, it's better than just waiting for my top-fade. You need a card? Got a girlfriend who you think is cheating?"

"No, uh, nothing like that. Can you keep something on the DL?"

"If you ask me to. Just to be clear, when I tell stories, I change some of the details to keep it anonymous, like those doctors on _Untold Stories_. Also, I reserve the right to write about them in a book later."

"...You serious?"

"Yes. Your brother?"

"What-how-"

"You know that thing Sherlock Holmes does when he looks at someone and he can tell who they are from a bunch of small clues? It's kind of like that. When was the last time you heard from him?"

"A week ago. He was one of the security guards on that show where they auction off shipping containers."

"Oh yeah, the black guy. I loved that episode where he stood there with his arms crossed and said nothing. All right, give me his cell number, I'll see what I can do."

* * *

What do I have? What do I want? How do I get there? Why did I never finish reading _Luminosity_?

1) A ring, some friends who can't get here in time, and the contents of any containers I can reach and crack open.

2) To neutralize the threat by any means necessary. Lethal? If I can't mission-kill the armor, or the man... Hold, pending further observation.

3) Dropping container? Tabled. Blowing up a ship? Too much collateral. The old bullfighter ploy? Tabled.

Observed, oriented, decided. Time to act.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Mr. Benson. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"It's all right."

"Have a seat."

"So, why do you want to be a guard on the show?"

"Student loans. If you don't mind me asking, what happened to the last guy?"

"Rick stopped coming to work one day. Happens in this line of work. Corporate told me to fix the problem, so, here you are. I understand you got another job since you submitted your resume?"

"I work from home. It won't interfere."

"Right. The job consists mostly of standing around looking tough-"

"I can do that."

"-And occasionally moving things as the bidders require."

"I can do that too. Used to work in an electronics store, and I'm a big guy, so I was always the one to move stuff."

"Well, we'll be fine as long as you don't give the bidders any tips, _ahahaha_!"

"Ha ha ha."

"You'll be working with Washington's old partner, Veracruz."

"Do I get a locker?"

* * *

I am acutely aware of my need to practice fine control with my flight.

George Lucas said that the AT Walkers from _Empire_ were inspired by the container movers from the Port of LA; those things that look like the mother of all AV carts, that pull containers up on cables.

So, it turns out that even with an alien hypercomputer on your finger downloading schematics into your brain, it's actually quite hard to get one of them to drop at the drop of a hat. Almost as if it were some kind of safety concern or something!

Hence the flight. Hence the hanging upside-down, acutely aware of the unforgiving steel twenty feet below me, and the even more unforgiving concrete below that. I keep an indicator in my HUD, even though Sadie assures me that we totally have more than enough juice, you big baby.

Wait, why am I doing it the hard way? I drop to the container. Sadie, calculate the amount of rage to apply to get this crate within about 250 pounds of breaking and execute.

(! That will leave it quite sensitive to any jumping. ¡)

That's the plan.

It occurs to me that he's not using any of his suit's weapons, though I can clearly see them. He just keeps trying to paste or roadkill the decoy.

He would make sport of me? Then I shall trap the hunter.

...That would sound a lot more impressive if I wasn't hiding on the roof of a cargo container. I'll have to punch it up for the memoir.

Sadie, while I'm waiting for him to show up, call Tritter. Give her a _précis_ of the situation. End with "come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway."

(! Done. ¡)

Thanks. And our guest has arrived. Is the hologram in position?

(! Roger. He's under us. ¡)

 _Aaand_...jump!

The container creaks before the cables snap. I go to flight, and I like to think his eyes bulged out comically in a cartoonish fashion before it crushed him.

I may have been feeling a little bit smug as I dropped to the deck. Okay, we need to-

 **Clever.**

There's a _thoom_ as something hits the wreckage.

 **Not clever enough.**

Another impact, and the wreckage shifts.

I don't stick around. Sadie, find me a ship that hits the criteria for plan B.

* * *

"Morning, Floyd."

"Morning Mr..Aldrin. Don't worry, I'll clean it up."

"How's the case going?"

"Great! Just great, _sifu_! Except for the part where it's not really going at all."

"That's Chinese. You never explained the whole undercover thing."

"I dunno. I just thought it would be like the TV shows."

"Like that episode of Bones where Kathy and Booth become circus performers?"

"Yeah. But it's just been _boring_. Just standing around or moving stuff when the producers tell me."

"Security's usually boring."

"Private or public?"

"Little of both."

"Pass a coaster, please. The most exciting thing was that time someone got food poisoning from the food truck, and being hit on. "

"The woman or the gay couple?"

"The woman. I'm pretty sure her husband doesn't know. Unless they're interested in that sort of thing. Doubt I'm the first brown pony she's wanted a ride on. _Thank you Lord for this food, may it do my body good, Amen._ "

"Are you actually going to _eat_ that?"

"Waffle, egg, bacon. All perfectly normal breakfast foods."

"They're not normally in a _sandwich_."

"I like to consider myself a trendsetter. Remind me to show you my hot dog taco idea sometime. But as for right now; Sadie, send the casefiles to the holoprojector."

"You are _thorough_ , aren't you, son?"

"I got the take from everyone within two Bacon numbers of our lost little lamb. Sadie - the ring - is really good at gathering digitized information. I've sifted through it, even used some pattern recognition algorithms I found online."

"Where?"

"I think you don't want me to answer that."

"Hypothetically."

"If I had a magic space ring that could plant quantum entanglement nanocomputers in certain trunk lines. Hypothetically. Like I was saying, nobody is acting like they had anything to do with his death. No significant deviations."

"So, nothing stands out at all?

"I can't find his actual phone, but as best as I can tell, he was just a normal guy. "

"What did you find in his apartment?"

"... _Um._ "

* * *

I once saw a video where someone snuck onboard a capsized ship that had been righted and towed to dock to be scrapped. It was a careful advance through the night, pausing behind boxes and around corners to listen and look for workers.

That is not remotely what I do.

I tell Sadie to dump the boat's plans into my head, and the spike of pain makes me nearly do a Miss Myanmar 2015. I recover about half a second before he comes crashing through the containers like the Igor suit towards the end of Iron Man 3.

Time to go.

I lead him on a merry chase, through the bowels and bulkheads of the ship, which is abandoned after the financing fell through. I even spit **red** fire at him, ineffectually, until finally he turns a corner and sees that he's trapped me against a wall.

 **Found you.**

I turn around, fear written on my face. I imagine he smiled, internally, before he charged.

Then he stopped smiling as he went through the hologram where the external bulkhead should've been, and dropped straight into the ocean.

One born every minute.

I call back the holoprojector from the deck below me as I consider the situation. Even if the suit is watertight, there's nowhere nearby for him to get out of the se-

(! Disturbance detected. ¡)

Oh come _on_.

You know that scene in Avengers where Tony bursts from the water? It's a lot less amusing when it's being done by a guy you hate, who just hovers there, somehow looking smug without even having a face.

 **Come on,** ** _mayate_** **. Hit me with your best shot.**

* * *

" _Euurgh._ "

"Problem, Benson?"

"...know what Veracruz? I'm gonna level with you. I'm actually a PI looking into the disappearance of Michael Washington. I was hired by his brother."

"Is that why I saw you poking around?"

"Yeah. The last ping I got to his cell phone is somewhere near here, but it's not precise, and I can't find the phone itself-"

"Oh. It's...it's in my locker."

"What?"

"Found it, thought he dropped it. So I stuck it in my locker and pulled out the battery, I figured when he came back, I'd just give it to him. But he didn't come back. Here."

"Okay, there's still a charge in the battery."

"How did you know the code?"

"...His girlfriend gave it to me. Looks like someone sent him a text. 'Meet me at-' Do you recognize that container code?"

"I can look it up."

"Perfect. Lead on, Macduff."

* * *

Overclock.

Okay, this Mother Hubbard is too OP. Writer, please nerf.

I have to believe the writer or ROB wouldn't put me into this situation if I was underlevelled.* Unless I'm supposed to die (unlikely, he's a sub-boss at best) or run away. But I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet.

Right. My ring.

The suit was completely emotionally opaque, except when he spoke, and then greed came through loud and clear. But he was immune to fear. Rage didn't go in, just impacted on the surface.

At least, from the _outside_.

I need a construct. Some kind of carrier, like the protein shells that coat viruses. Compassion can channel other lights and also phase. But I'm probably going to lose the signal the moment it penetrates.

Wait.

Armor-piercing.

I saw a documentary once, about High Explosive Anti Tank RPG rounds, and how they used an explosion to focus liquid copper into a thin stream. And thanks to our pal, I have no surfeit of what I need

Except for the fact where I wasn't really compassionate about the people running for their lives. I took this case out of _boredom_ , not because I really cared.

At least, not about real people.

Sadie, drop Overclock.

I make the pose. Hands together, draw one back-

Clint "Hawkeye" Barton. Used to be a circus archer, and a bad guy. I've done what I thought was the right thing, only to realize I was very wrong later. Played by Jeremy Renner in the films, his partner was the lovely Natasha "Black Widow" Romanoff, and this was not a good time to be thinking about pretty redheads, or I'd start thinking about Her-

I can feel the **string** under my fingers. The ring starts to tint.

Or maybe it _was_ time. Katniss "Mockingjay" Everdeen. Volunteered for the Capitol's twisted gladiator games out of love for her sister, became the figurehead of a revolution. I had been stung by wasps, just like she had. Walked right out the door into one, took the stinger right in the lower lip. I could empathize, though mine weren't burdened with the name "Tracker Jackers" by some marketing department.

The... **bendy thingy** creaks as it bends.

Robin of Sherwood. Got his green rear handed to him by Little John, Friar Tuck, I'm not sure if Maid Marian ever got in on that action. I know what it's like to try your best and still fail.

The **fletching** brushes my draw hand.

His name is Oliver Queen. After five years trapped on a desert island, he comes home and finds everything he knew changed. He falls into old patterns, but he's just going through the motions, when what he really wants to do is-

Well, I didn't want to be a costumed vigilante. But other than that.

The boxing glove head forms on the end. Gotta respect the classics. Especially when you don't have to worry about physics.

I was using "rather irritable" before, but as I recall, the real good stuff comes from rage, the pain that you get from a loss. Which leads to a very simple question; _what have I lost_?

 _A Wise Man denied his Homeland._

And a simple answer.

 ** _Everything._**  
 _(! He is_ _ **not**_ _going to hurt_ _ **anyone**_ _else. ¡)_  
The core of the ring shoots through with red. The arrowhead fills with **liquid**. Red like blood, burning like fire.

Will this even work?

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Open your eyes.

Let fly.

* * *

"On three, ready? One, two, pull!"

" _Rragh!_ "

" _Madre de dios_ , the _smell_!"

"Yeah it...ain't exactly a dozen roses. On the other hand, we found him."

"What's left of him."

"Why didn't anyone notice the sm-this isn't a normal container. It was sealed and...wait a second. The walls are thicker than they should be. I think this is shielding. Probably whatever's under that tarp back there."

"You seen this sort of thing before?"

"Not outside of CSI, no. And NCIS, and Law and Order. What do I tell Lamar?"

"What's under here…?"

"Whoa. What _is_ that?"

(! Object appears to be a small mecha, with the legend "Test Unit 017", in Korean. ¡)

"So...what? Is this some secret North Korean weapons project someone smuggled out of the country?"

"You know Korea unified in the 80s, right?"

"I mean _Northern_ Kore- _don'ttouchthat!_ "

"Why not? It's just a robot- _whoa_!"

"...Sadie... Did that robot just _eat_ Veracruz? Just turn him into a beam of light and suck him up? Did I see it right?"

(! Confirmed. ¡)

 **Oh no. I'm right here. Who's Sadie?**

* * *

I walk over the ground, littered with debris.

Turns out that when the suit is damaged badly enough to go flying all over the place, it eventually dumps the pilot. Or maybe he pulled the equivalent of the yellow handle. I don't really care which, as the result is more than satisfactory; the suit lying on the ground, eating its guts out, and Veracruz desperately crawling away from me.

Well, satisfactory except for the scent of burning electronics and flesh.

He'll be lucky if he keeps his legs, which look like a rendering glitch in a game. Sadie, shut down my sense of smell.

(! Roger. ¡)

I place a foot on his back, and press down. He moans as his hands slip out from under him, a low, animal sound. I grab them and twist them behind his back, slickness under my fingers.

Don't think about what you've just done to this man. Focus on something else. _Anything_ else.

(! Police approaching. ¡)

"Veracruz," I say, as I bring out the safety cuffs. " _You have failed this city_."

 **-PR-**

* **Authour's note:** That's _exactly_ what I do. Throw 'em in the deep end and watch them try to struggle out.


	5. AAU Chris 'Spectrum' Benton 01

**Meanwhile, in an** ** _Alternate_** **Alternate Universe**

A port never truly sleeps. You can still see the lights on, hear the containers and such moving. We passed a ship being repaired on the way in.

"Where is she?" I grumbled. "I've got homework to do."

"It'll take you five minutes," Ellie said absently.

"It's the _principle_ of the thing."

"Seriously, where is she?" Gabe said, as we arrived at the location Tritter had sent us.

A light flared on the sky.

(! Exotic energy detected. ¡) Joyeuse informed us. (! Quantum fluxes consistent with- ¡)

"Probably the Princess," Gabe said.

"Is she here?"

"No, she's in another castle. It's-"

There was a loud bang, and the light cleared away. Turned out it was what I can only describe as a 'space elf'. Pale skin, blonde hair, pointy ears and everything. He looked like Legolas, if Legolas was the sort of person who let everyone know he did crossfit.

"You."

 _He mad_ , I said.

 _Yeah, obvs,_ Gabe said, with, okay, more snarkiness than I think was _strictly_ required.

"You have corrupted the Princess. She focuses not on her duties. She speaks often of returning to this mudball."

 ** _Dude_** , Gabe said, _what did you_ _ **do**_ _with her_?

 _It was only a_ _ **kiss**_ _! How did it end up like this?_

Ellie raised a mental eyebrow, and took the bait. _It was_ _ **only**_ _a kiss?_

 ** _It was only a kiss!_**

"Are you children _listening_ to me?"

I burned **want** , and threw a container at him. "Frankly, no."

That would've been a cool Bond one-liner if it had actually worked. Not that I expected it to; I saw what the Princess did to those guys in the theatre when they attacked us.

Turns out nachos are great for destroying weird alien power suppressing things, if you just throw 'em at sufficient velocity. Better than actually eating 'em.

"Now I shall talk, and you shall listen," I said, as he batted the container away. "I don't know what your major malfunction is, but I didn't do anything to her-"

"She has feelings for you!"

"So it's _my_ fault that I'm charming?"

Perhaps not the most diplomatic thing to say.

"Did you not seek to charm her?"

"...Well...not _that_ much."

One of the benefits of being plonked back into high school is that I can resolve not to make the same mistakes I did last time, like with girls. Specifically, not realizing they were flirting, and not really doing anything with them.

Problem is, I'm an adult, regardless of what body I'm in and the raging hormones it contains. Girls my 'age' are right out, even if I don't plan to go past the ol' kiss and cuddle. Girls who are older think I'm a kid. Space alien princesses who aren't even human in the first place? I thought I had a shot.

Apparently, I had more of one than I thought.

"Look, we can resolve this peacefully."

"Ah, yes, how does that insipid music go?" He held out a hand. " _There'll be peace when you are gone_ _._ "

(! Exotic energy detected! ¡)

Yes, I know! Evade!

I've never been in an earthquake. Hurricanes have largely been on the far side of a window. No _tornadoes_. So if I had to compare the attack to anything, anything at all, it'd be an artillery barrage. And that, of course, would be entirely theoretical.

But I'm pretty sure arty doesn't toss cargo containers around like ninepins.

It wasn't just throwing them, mind. Some of them sheared and shifted and broke, and I had the thought an instant before Joyeuse informed me.

(! Gravitational fluxes detected! Caution advised. ¡)

Got it.

I watched a dead body slide slowly out of one particular container and float upwards. I hope he wasn't alive before all this. Joyeuse, tag that for later.

(! D'accord. Call incoming. ¡)

Who...?

"Spectrum? This is Lieutenant Tritter."

The HUD's caller ID read that she was calling from a police car heading in our direction.

"I'm just going to assume it wasn't you who called us to the port?"

A confused silence on her end. "No?"

"I figured. I'm kinda busy right now."

"I figured. Whose boyfriend did you piss off?"

...Huh.

"Hello? Are you still there? You didn't _actually_ -"

"It _would_ explain a lot. And you just gave me an idea."

" _Seriously?_ "

" ** _Face me, child!_** "

And then a redheaded body comes floating into his view.

I can kind of hear the whole area go still. Elf-lord says something quiet, and just floats down to the Princess' location. To her quiet body, light leaking from the wound in her side. I've got myself anchored using a low-profile avarice construct, with will ready to deploy if I need a shield.

He reaches her, touches her. Then, according to the scans, his face creased, and he said aloud "A resourceful deception. But you have not a fraction of her light."

And that's when Ellie phased out of his hands, and Gabe opened up with his _fraktalweapon_.

 _Little effect on target!_ he called. He had good aim, even though he was holding onto the rim of a container with one hand. _He's in some kind of probability flux! I can't get a good shot at him!_

Aw, crap, he did his research. Elf-lord seemed more amused than anything else. How much orange do I have...?

The small sphere that I threw in his direction was nothing more than a desperation play. It was also "white" on the bottom and would be purple and pink on top with a white M if it wasn't an avarice construct.

Huh. It actually worked this time. Well, half of it-

Elf-lord looked down at it. "And what is this supposed to be-"

The ball popped open, and orange light began tracing over his form, drawing him in-

" _No!_ "

(! Capture 14% complete. ¡)

He tried to fly away, but I just shifted the **fear** to **desire** and fed it into my little surprise. It was a nice little pyramid scheme, until he was finally sucked in, and the ball snapped shut and dropped to the ground.

Along with everything else.

"Y'all okay? I called. The ball was rocking slightly, and I held my breath-

(! Capture 100% complete. ¡)

I swear, I could hear the catchy little jingle.

"I'm fine."

"Me too."

Gabe was nursing a bruise on his shoulder as he appeared. I nodded at him, and approached the sphere. Liv was crouched next to it, staring.

Just staring.

I picked it up.

"Did you just capture an alien space-elf in a _Poké Ball_?" Liv said, in the voice of someone trying to decide whether they should laugh or cry.

"No, of course not."

"Good, bec-"

"I captured an alien space-elf in a _Master_ Ball." I toss the sphere up and down once, and run my thumb over the M as I grin at her. "Get it right."

 **-PR-**

Aaand there's the requisite alternate universe version. I'm currently low on ideas for this fic, so I'm open to suggestion here.


End file.
